


creance

by toromeo (ald0us)



Series: an arrangement most strange [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Bondage, D/s elements, I mean not really but tagging for safety, M/M, a pretty emotionally abusive/manipulative relationship tbh so consume with caution, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-17 01:32:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14177673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ald0us/pseuds/toromeo
Summary: Creance (n). In falconry, a light cord used to tether a flying falcon, especially during training.





	creance

**Author's Note:**

> Set questionably around 3x01, with significant canon divergence as early as 2a. Also this seems to be the first fic in the tag (which excites me way more than it should), so enjoy!

“Such a beautiful ceremony,” Victor said, pressing his slender crystal glass to his lips without taking a full drink. He gave a thin smile, keeping his gaze cool. “Another shadowhunter added to our ranks is always a welcome sight. Her Institute must be so proud of all she has achieved.”  
  
The Lightwood boy didn’t even manage to hide his glower and Victor could feel his smile expand, just a little. It was no secret among the Clave that the Lightwoods had allowed Valentine Morgenstern to escape, and it was also no secret that it had been the combined efforts of Valentine’s children that lead to his execution. It was an embarrassment for everyone involved, the proud, haughty Lightwoods especially, though most everyone with wits had scraped a promotion out of it in some way or another. But Clave politics had a long memory, and Valentine’s escape was not going to be forgotten so soon.  
  
Almost no one knew the truth, but the truth was generally of little interest to the Clave. The Clave ran on narrative, on action, on credit and blame. The highest leadership knew the truth—or Victor’s preferred version of it, anyway—and the masses were fed a story always culminating in triumph.  
  
A triumph in this case being Clary Fairchild’s rune ceremony and the current, more public afterparty. The Lightwood boy wasn’t even pretending to be enjoying it. His dislike for the Fairchild girl had been obvious, and it seemed no wonder seeing how easily she’d stolen away his parabatai.  
  
“We are,” Alec said, his tone suggesting anything but. He was staring Victor down with thinly-veiled dislike, which despite his impressive height gave more of an impression of a sulking child than a threat. He crossed his arms over his chest, dark eyes still broadcasting his disgust. “Brave of you to show your face, actually.”  
  
Victor raised an eyebrow, lips curling slightly in bemusement. The utter lack of pretension was almost charming, after a fashion. “And why would that be?”  
  
“You lost the Institute,” Alec said shortly. “Remanded to Idris for discipline, so I’d heard.”  
  
Victor gave him a full smile. If he at all suspected the truth—Victor’s truth, that was—then he gave absolutely no indication. With an airy wave of his hand, he said, “You know how quickly these things can change. Especially when one recovers the Mortal Instruments.”  
  
Lightwood’s eyes narrowed, as if he somehow suspected foul play but couldn’t quite figure out how. “I don’t care what the Clave thinks of you,” he said, and there was real anger in his voice—a rather delicious treat, after being surrounded only by measured words and veiled intent. “I know what you did to my sister. All of us do.”  
  
“What I did?” He allows himself a mild affectation of surprise. “I assure you, Alec, the _yin fen_ derivative I offered Isabelle is used by our best healers and was given entirely in good faith. It was an unfortunate happenstance that she proved so sensitive to its aftereffects.”  
  
The truth of it was the compound was far purer than the recommended concentration for general use, but given the volatile nature of the demon drug and the fact he’d destroyed the remnants afterward, it was virtually impossible to prove he’d done anything but his duty as a trained healer.  
  
Alec seemed to know this, or at least the gist of it, and the bitterness in his expression deepened. “You overestimate your own cleverness.”  
  
“And you, my friend, overestimate my interest.” Victor clapped him on the shoulder with an easy smile, making Lightwood’s scowl twitch up into a momentary snarl. He deliberated a split second then added, “My best wishes to your family.”  
  
He felt Alec’s hatred on his back as he departed, and the heated gaze warmed him in a way the roaring fires in the banquet hall’s mantels could not. It was a cold midwinter in Idris, and though there was currently no snow on the streets the chill was pervasive, settling into one’s bones. Victor himself preferred the heat of the summers, reminding him of home in the Mumbai Institute’s proud, if sweaty halls.  
  
He found Imogen with her newfound grandson, telling him some long-worn story about his dead father Victor himself had heard an untold number of times. Jace, for his part, looked tense like the bowstring of his shoulders had been pulled taut, as if he hadn’t realized how little he would enjoy the endless accolades a national hero was subject to. Seeing Victor approach his brow furrowed, but he looked quickly to Imogen and, seeing her smile, schooled his expression into something more polite.  
  
“Victor,” she said, gesturing to the seat across from her. He accepted and took the chair, noticing the Herondale ring around Jace’s neck. If he hadn’t had reliable confirmation the boy was, in fact, Stephen’s son, he wouldn’t have believed it. “I was just telling Jace about the swarm of Epalid demons in the Paris catacombs.”  
  
Victor smiled, as if he’d been there and held it as a cherished memory. “Of course. A miracle of the Angel no one was hurt.”  
  
Three shadowhunters had been killed on that mission, but their families were not powerful or connected so he imagined Imogen either didn’t care or had forgotten. Either way, Victor wasn’t about to take it upon himself to remind her.  
  
Jace smiled, and there was unease in his mismatched eyes. He had not forgotten their run-in at the City of Bones, and though he appeared to bask in the newfound attention from the Inquisitor, he seemed to be disquieted at how blithely his grandmother treated those he knew wished him harm.  Such a talented warrior found flat-footed in matters of politics. It was nothing new—and how those like himself rose the ranks to influence those with less sense and more willingness to die.  
  
Victor greeted him and Jace returned it with some displeasure, earning a beaming smile from his grandmother. Some of his mannerisms were so like his brother’s—the set of his jaw, the quiet grace of his movements, like an overtrained dancer. Victor had, in his time, been to a mundane ballet and had been enthralled by the knowledge that they often danced on bruised and bleeding feet—he’d watched the rigid tension in their powerful limbs, the grace and discipline that belied the pain.  
  
They chatted on about nothing, conversation flowing like the fine plum wine and sweet mulled cider from Idris’ orchards.  Jace, unsurprisingly mute, seemed to watch his surroundings with neverending vigilance, his eyes even flicking across the exits, like a ritual. This behavior was not entirely unusual in shadowhunters, but there was an urgency and sharpness to it that reminded Victor rather strongly of Jonathan.  
  
Clary Fairchild appeared at Jace’s elbow. She was, somehow, more difficult to read than her peers—it was her mundane nature, spontaneous and unpredictable. Even the most ruthlessly cunning shadowhunter of them all, her father, had underestimated her, and it had proved his undoing. Victor had no interest in repeating his mistakes.  
  
He greeted her formally, offering her a small traditional bow of the head, as per her new rank. Her returning smile seemed genuine, but he doubted it was. She offered Imogen an equally sweet smile, then took Jace’s arm.  
  
“Can Jace and I talk for a second?” she asked, her speech jarringly informal. Had she been anyone else, her taking Jace away would be considered outright rude.  
  
“Of course,” Imogen said, and she appeared mostly unruffled. Clearly, she was not immune to Clary’s charm—or she’d simply realized that on her new grandchild’s list of priorities, his girlfriend managed to rank higher than she did. Knowing Imogen, it was likely both. “You two should dance. It is a celebration after all.”  
  
Both Clary and Jace managed to appear bashful, fingers twining furtively as they headed into the crowd. Imogen followed them with her eyes, as if watching to see who they spoke to, who they declined. After a moment, she said, “I trust all goes well with the Morgenstern boy.”  
  
She’d received his report on the hunt for the remaining Circle members that morning, so he supposed she didn’t mean to inquire after Jonathan’s efficacy as a weapon. Anyone could see his potential—brutally capable as a fighter and a consummate hunter, capable of taking any face. But he was deemed volatile and unruly by the Clave, too dangerous to publicly admit into their ranks. Victor had found him and Victor had tamed him, and Jonathan given Victor everything.  
  
“It does,” Victor told her, allowing his tone and expression to cool, just slightly. The Inquisitor didn’t appreciate impudence, but she did respect strength and will as iron as her own. “He is aware of his position. Even if he is still dangerous.”  
  
Imogen’s eyebrow lifted, but her eyes narrowed in something akin to satisfaction. Taking a careful sip of wine, she said, “Then I suggest you keep him on a very tight leash.”  
  
He couldn’t hold back a curl of his lips. “I very much intend to.”  
  


  
  
The Aldertree Manor was further from Alicante’s city limits than many old families’ property, which had once been a pejorative but now was coveted as an escape from the bustle of Idris life. It wasn’t as grand or impressive as some, but it had been well-kept over the years and filled all his needs.  
  
Victor himself had no real sense of home, having moved the world over too many times. There had once been a time he had felt that deep sense of belonging, the feeling that home was not a locale or a set of walls but a person and a feeling, but that time had long passed.  
  
He pushed open the door and was surprised to hear the sounds of music drifting down the stairwell. He couldn’t identify the song, but it sounded like Rachmaninoff or one of the other Russian composers. Music had never been his specialty—Eva had remarked he had ears of clay.  
  
The music halted and a moment later a flash of blonde hair and pale skin was visible over the banister. A few moments more and Jonathan was buried in his arms, nuzzling into Victor’s shoulder.  
  
“I missed you,” Jonathan said, his embrace around Victor’s ribs so tight it nearly ached. He turned his pretty blue eyes up Victor’s way. “I have dinner ready, if you’re hungry.”  
  
Victor extricated himself carefully and stroked his thumb appreciatively over Jonathan’s chin. “Thank you, pet. I’m famished. What did you make?”  
  
“Tuna casserole,” Jonathan beamed. He let go, albeit with some reluctance, and padded soundlessly towards the kitchen, fingers lightly twined with Victor’s. He was wearing a soft sweater that somehow managed to cling to the long lines of his body, and jeans that didn’t quite conceal the curve of his arse.  
  
Jonathan was not naturally a sexually provocative being, but he’d been learning. How to flutter his translucent lashes, pout with those full lips, how to make his fighter’s grace sensuous and slithering. For him, sex was not a game, it was deadly serious—he craved intimacy as a starving man would pine after a meal. Every little touch, caress, even a loving look or word, every morsel of affection was snapped up. He needed Victor, and he needed to be needed, and Victor was more than willing to supply both needs as long as Jonathan upheld his side of the bargain.  
  
_Keep him on a very tight leash._  
  
“How was your day?” Jonathan asked, and there it was, a shy curl to his lips and a coquettish tilt to his lashes. He spooned a generous helping of casserole onto two plates, setting them both down on the granite countertop of the kitchen’s island (a newer, more modern addition) while Victor picked out silverware from a drawer. There had once been staff at the Manor but Victor preferred to be alone, and now that Jonathan was here firing them had been a necessity.  
  
“Busy,” Victor said, sitting down at one of the simple bar stools and taking a bite of the casserole. It was warm, and truthfully quite heavenly, and if he knew Jonathan he’d upended an entire tub of butter into it. The bread crumbs on top were crisped to perfection, and the noodles inside soft to the point of smoothness. “Clarissa got her angelic rune today. There was a public ceremony.”  
  
Jonathan’s hand slowed on its way to his mouth. “She did?”  
  
Jonathan’s feelings about his sister were...complicated, to say the least. At first he’d craved her approval as he had everyone else’s, but she proved tiresomely moralizing and he’d been distracted by the promise of Victor’s love. But he hadn’t forgotten Clary or Jace, and if Victor’s thoughts were correct, seemed to resent the fact neither of them had bothered to question Sebastian Verlac’s supposed death in the hunt for Valentine.  
  
“I—I didn’t realize she didn’t have her angelic rune,” Jonathan finished, rather lamely, his eyes downcast.  
  
Victor laid his hand firmly on Jonathan’s arm. “You deserved to be there,” he said, and even to his own ears his tone seemed genuine. “The Clave will see, someday.”  
  
He did not promise.  
  
Jonathan gave an odd, wobbly smile and looked deeply into his casserole. “Was it nice?”  
  
“It was,” Victor said. He took another bite of casserole, made an appreciative noise. “This is good. Very good.”  
  
Jonathan perked up immediately, latching onto praise. He gave Victor a pretty smile and shifted on his stool. “I’m glad you like it.”  
  
“You should be very proud, pet.” Victor leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Jonathan flushed very pink, one hand going up to touch the spot, blinking rather quickly as if in confusion. He looked childishly pleased. “Should I feed it to you?”  
  
Jonathan looked puzzled.  
  
Victor gave him an easy smile and picked up another forkful. “Open up.”  
  
Jonathan hesitates, then opens his mouth. By the way his cheekbones and the tips of his ears are flushing, he hasn’t missed the other context in which a similar request has been made. Victor presses the fork gently to his bottom lip and Jonathan closes his lips, pressing them to the tines and swallowing.  
  
Jonathan turned his blue eyes upwards, fixing Victor with a pleading look. Victor picked up more of his casserole and put it to his mouth, watching as Jonathan obediently chewed and swallowed. He allows himself to briefly imagine Jonathan eating out of his hand, licking his palm with his clever tongue—  
  
“I’m not hungry,” Jonathan said, once Victor had fed him the first half of his casserole. He had a needy, desperate look to his eyes, a certain restlessness to his demeanor that Victor knew well.  
  
“As you wish,” Victor said, and returned to his own. Jonathan masked his desperation poorly, fidgeting and squirming, asking Victor hurried questions about his day as Victor ate. Only once he’d finished off a glass of red wine and helped Jonathan carry the dishes to the sink did he allow him contact, putting a hand on the small of his back. He heard the smallest of gasps and felt the taut muscles of Jonathan’s back arch to the touch.

  
“Let’s get you upstairs,” he said lowly, speaking the words against the back of Jonathan’s neck.  
  


  
  
Jonathan scrambled gracelessly onto the bed, pulling off his sweater and partly shucking off his jeans. Victor watched him in mild amusement—he acted like a horny eighteen-year-old who’d had only his palms for company, not a grown man. Still, he reflected as he selected a set of leather cuffs and a generous bottle of lube from the bedside drawer, that wasn’t without its own charm. Jonathan was as naïve in matters of love as he was adept beyond his years in the matter of war or suffering. And that certainly had its perks.  
  
Jonathan extended his hands eagerly, licking his pretty lips in anticipation as Victor tossed the bottle onto the bedcovers and tightened the cuffs around Jonathan’s wrists. “How do you want me?” Jonathan asked, a bit breathlessly.  
  
Victor pretended to think a moment, taking in his narrow waist and hips, his long legs stretched out before him. “How about on your knees.”  
  
Obediently, Jonathan shifted around so that he was on his hands and knees, though a bit of uncertainty had crept into his eyes. Victor rounded the bed, slowly enough that he held Jonathan’s attention all the way, then mounted the mattress, not even removing his shoes. There was tension in Jonathan’s spine, as well as a sense of heightened expectancy.  
  
“Relax,” Victor said, rubbing a hand comfortingly over his flank. His runes stood out like coal in snow, scars interrupting the smoothness of his skin. Victor took his waist and pulled him back against his own hips, and Jonathan took a sharp intake of breath, his shoulders tensing.  
  
Victor leaned in, bracing himself with his arms over Jonathan’s shoulders, pressing a firm kiss between his shoulderblades as he kneaded his perfect arse. Jonathan sighed, muscles softening just a little; Victor coaxed him to rest on his elbows and nudged his knees apart.  
  
“Good,” Victor said approvingly, snagging the lube off the bed and squeezing out a generous portion rubbing briefly at his palm with his fingers to warm it. “Are you ready, pet?”  
  
Jonathan nodded, then hissed as Victor pushed a finger into him. Victor coaxed him open, murmuring encouragement and stroking Jonathan’s trembling sides, occasionally crooking his fingers enough to make Jonathan gasp. With his free hand he undid his belt buckle, pulling it free and laying it beside him. Then he unzipped his trousers, palming himself down with the excess.  
  
Already feeling the pleasurable buzz of anticipation, Victor took Jonathan’s hips and pushed into him, glacially slow. Jonathan groaned, the low sounds becoming whiny and breathier they’d truly become moans. With anyone else Victor would consider this excessive or theatrical—Eva had always told him if he wanted her to make noise he had to fucking earn it—but Jonathan seemed to be unable to keep the sounds from spilling out, as if his thoughts had become nonverbal.  
  
Victor gave a firm jerk of his hips and Jonathan made a little sound like a whimper, his bound hands balling into fists around the sheets. He felt _good_ , so tight and smooth around him, the glide of the lube just right. Victor exhaled carefully, setting a slow, steady pace, placing a hand on Jonathan’s back. His skin was hot to the touch, chest heaving, his heart racing a staccato beat against his ribs.  
  
Jonathan moaned his name and Victor thought bitterly of Imogen ordering him to _keep him on a tight leash_ —if only she knew how absolute his control was. He _owned_ Jonathan, knew him from the inside out, tugged at his strings like a puppeteer and praised him for his cleverness as he danced. The thought of his _control_ lit a fire in him that sex alone could not—on an impulse, Victor picked up his belt, looping the supple leather around Jonathan’s neck.  
  
Jonathan spluttered, rearing back; Victor pushed him firmly back in place and pulled it taut.  
  
“Relax, pet,” he said, an ironic smile twisting his lips. “I’m not going to hurt you.”  
  
Jonathan gave a wordless groan and jerked his hips back clumsily against Victor’s. “More,” he gasped. “ _More_.”  
  
Victor gave a firm jerk on the belt, yanking Jonathan’s head back; he gave a choked, filthy moan and arched his back. His spit-slicked lips had fallen open, panting and making delicious, decadent noises as Victor fucked him more roughly, his translucent lashes fluttering at each thrust. It felt so _good_ —Jonathan was his, all _his_ , responding beautifully to every touch, every stroke.  
  
He was getting perilously close, his cock throbbing powerfully with each thrust, but he could feel Jonathan all but falling apart around him—making agonized, wanton sounds—and he grit his teeth against the onslaught, keeping his rough pace. He angled his hips down and Jonathan cried out, jerking against his leash with impressive, willful strength, and for a moment Victor worried he might inadvertently strangle himself before a heady, intense wave of pleasure crashed over him and he came, still moving his hips—  
  
Jonathan gave a low, languid moan a few seconds later and sank bonelessly into the mattress. He looked beatific lying there, faintly angelic with the setting sun haloing his golden hair through the window, painting his sweat-soaked cheekbones. Victor sank down next to him, running a hand through his messy, sweaty hair and tilting his face towards him to plant  a kiss to his forehead.  
  
“That was wonderful, sweetheart,” he said, and stroked the outside of Jonathan’s thigh. “You were perfect. Shall I take that off for you?”  
  
Weakly Jonathan shook his head no, touching his fingers to Victor’s belt around his neck. “I want it,” he said, his voice rough as if Victor had been fucking his throat. He opened his eyes, looking hazy and satiated and very beautiful. Victor kissed him again, his mouth this time, and Jonathan’s lips parted, hot and silky. Jonathan sighed and shifted against him, pushing his bare chest against Victor’s clothes, as if reveling at the texture on his skin. Victor took his waist, pulling him in and wrapping an arm around him, stroking his back in slow, soothing strokes.  
  
This was what Jonathan loved more than all else—to be hugged and petted, to be told how good he was, how beautiful, how perfect. To be showered in love and affection so thick and so deep he could drown in it. The pain and roughness may be what he enjoyed sexually but a soft touch was what he needed—and a soft touch was what brought him to heel.  
  
“That’s a good boy,” Victor said quietly against the shell of his ear, and Jonathan gave a soft, shuddering sigh. “They’ll see how good you are someday, I promise.”  
  
Jonathan snuggled up close, leaning his forehead against Victor’s shoulder. He looked up briefly, and Victor could see a shifting darkness in his eyes, the danger that lurked beneath the perfect exterior. His perfect lips curled upwards, exposing just a hint of small, straight teeth. His voice was perfectly flat when he said,  
  
“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> In case it's not clear, Aldertree found out who "Sebastian" was and used this and Jonathan's uh, emotional issues, as leverage to get the Mortal Instruments to turn over to the Clave (instead of being remanded to Idris for wrongdoing, as per canon). 
> 
> This implies that he and Imogen knew about the plan to free Valentine, and allowed Duncan to carry out Jonathan's plan so that the Clave would be forced to kill him rather than keep him locked away in the Guard. Intrigue abounds!!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading! <3


End file.
